wajamaa hamna maadili yoyote ya kuwa watu. Unapenda ndio neno uliloona sahihi la kusema kumaanisha , UMEKUBALI HUNA pa kujinasua, zaidi ya kutaka ingiza vit vingine.How pathetically your brain works.
Huna Big idea yoyote wee mwehu, usichojua ni kwamba kujinasibu na maandiko yenye plan kubwa, hakukufanyi kuwa na plan kubwa, kwa uwezo wako mdogo ni km kumpa kichaa kiberiti karibu na petrol kwa vile ni haki yake kuvuta sigara. Wajamaa na magaidi wengine ni wakupima akili kabla ya kuruhusiwa kuwa karibu , watu wenye akili wakizungumza. Nao kwa kukosa adamu na maadili watajinasibu na kuanza jifanya ni wahubiri wazuri. Mwenyekiti wenu anajua kwamba tayari nyie ni potential terrorists, ndio maana mnapimiwa habari kwa kijiko.
I had just told her about Manuel Torres. He was an engineer employed by MAIN and one of the men recently attacked by guerrilla s at our hydroelectric dam construction site. Manuel was a Colombian citizen who had a job because of a U .S. Department of State rule prohibiting us from sending U.S. citizens to that site.
We referred to it as the Colombians are Expendable doctrine, and it symbolized an attitude I had grown to hate. My feelings toward such policies were making it increasingly difficult for me to live with myself.
"According to Manuel, they fired AK-47s into the air and at hi s feet," I told Paula.
"He sounded calm when he told me about it, but I know he was almost hysterical. They didn't shoot anyone. Just gave them that letter and sent them downriver in their boats ."
"My God," Paula exclaimed. "The poor man was terrified.
" "Of course he was." I told her that I had asked Manuel whether he thought they were FARC or M-I9, referring to two of the most infamous Colombian guerrilla groups.
"And?"
"He said, neither. But he told me that he believes what they sai d in that letter.
" Paula picked up the newspaper I had brought and read the letter aloud.
"`We, who work every day just to survive, swear on the blood of our ancestors that we will never allow dams across our rivers . We are simple Indians and mestizos, but we would rather die than stand b y as our land is flooded. We warn our Colombian brothers : stop working for the construction companies.– She set the paper down.
"What did you say to him? "
I hesitated, but only for a moment.
"I had no choice. I had to toe the company line. I asked him if he thought that sounds like a letter a farmer would write." She sat watching me, patiently.
"He just shrugged." Our eyes met. "Oh, Paula, I detest myself for playing this role ."
"What did you do next?" she pressed .
"I slammed my fist on the desk . I intimidated him. I asked him whether farmers with AK-47s made any sense to him. Then I asked if he knew who invented the AK-47."
"Did he?"
"Yes, but I could hardly hear his answer. A Russian,' he said. Of course, I assured him that he was right, that the inventor had bee n a Communist named Kalashnikov, a highly decorated officer in th e Red Army.
I brought him around to understand that the people who wrote that note were Communists."
"Do you believe that?" she asked . Her question stopped me .
How could I answer, honestly? I recalled Iran and the time Yamin described me as a man caught between two worlds, a man in the middle. In some ways, I wished I had been in that camp when the guerrillas attacked, or that I was one of the guerrillas . An odd feeling crept over me, a sort of jealousy for Yamin and Doc an d the Colombian rebels. These were men with convictions. They had chosen real worlds, not a no-man's territory somewhere between .
"I have a job to do," I said at last.
She smiled gently. "I hate it," I continued. I thought about the men whose image s had come to me so often over the years, Tom Paine and other Revolutionary War heroes, pirates and frontiersmen .
